


Match Made

by turtleneck



Category: The Beatles, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bisexual John, College, M/M, Slow Burn, WTF, a serious fic, based on shit i went through, bisexual paul mccartney, bisexual paul mccartney??????, he's probably a little flexible though, it's a coronavirus fic at the end, john's been with everything, linda is fun, paul and john can't communicate, paul's never been with a man, straight george, try to guess the university
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26329990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtleneck/pseuds/turtleneck
Summary: It's Paul's freshman year of college, and so far, his only encounters with romance have been a string of one night stands and random girls. He decides, then, to sign up for Hathford University's annual Valentine's Day match. He gets a few interesting matches.Takes place in the Spring of 2020. You know where it's going. Based on semi-true events.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Linda McCartney/Paul McCartney
Comments: 18
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written a fanfiction since... sophomore year of high school. Now it's my sophomore year of college and I've relapsed into old habits. I've written a few chapters of this and thought hey what the heck. If you like it or hate it, leave a comment anyways so I know if I should continue. Not sure where I want to take this, and school's starting soon so let's see what happens. Anyways...

With a mouth full of macaroni and an empty head, Paul opened his phone to check his results. He hoped his stoic demeanor was enough to avoid attention from the other demons in the dining hall. Slowly, the webpage loaded and displayed his partially dreaded matches. Every year on February 14th, students at the Ivy League Hathford University were matched by a supposedly sophisticated algorithm to the supposed love of their lives. This was Paul's first year experiencing the long anticipated moment. Although Paul played the scene nonchalantly, he knew in his heart that he was a hopeless romantic, and despite the facade of skepticism, he firmly believed, in a fleeting, way that his first match was special. 

John Lennon.

He imagined himself mentioning to his mates, in a dismissive way, the scruffy hair of one Mr. John Lennon. He imagined himself, chuckling at the image of the self proclaimed messy communist. A Trotskyist of all things. He didn't even know what that meant. If John wanted to attract insecure pseudo intellectuals, then he did his job. But he didn't think that was John's intention. John looked sincerely (pseudo) intellectual, messy from life rather than intentional style, and artistic in the name of himself rather than an ideal.

But what else could Paul assume from his brief bio? 

"Musician, Trotskyist, Wanker."

His apparent 100% match, the Wanker. Paul's thumb partially covered his picture, so he brushed it away to take another look. John looked a couple years older, with a hanging, sharp angled nose and jaw, light brown locks thrown carelessly around squinted light almond eyes and a thin mouth with a slight uptick in the corner. The collar of his leather jacket turned up offensively, although Paul considered the statement a vulnerability considering the boldness of explicit rebellion in an age of irony. John, the sincere musician, the communist, the Wanker, the man with milky skin and a tempting smile. And he didn't message him.

Paul scrolled down to check his other matches. Linda Eastman, bio: "I can't dance,” blonde hair, kind eyes, subtle freckles. Freshman. He could imagine a life with her, a considerable step from his original dream of hermetic life on a Scottish farm. Perhaps she could join him on the field, enjoying some pot as a sheepdog ran through green. It seemed serene, but Paul was still 19. Serene was for another time.

Jane Asher. She was beautiful, funny, controlled. "Hope to be a professional model. Waiting for the right person to sweep me off my feet :)". Of course he wanted her, in bed, as a friend, in bed. Maybe Paul was too quick to judge her on her quirky normality. Polish was nice, but there was something deeply fulfilling about the raw sincerity of John Lennon.

So he wrote John a message.

"Hey~"

No. He needs to be interesting. What kind of a ponce sends "Hey" to an outspoken commie bastard? Would John want him to pledge his obedience to the same mantra? Should they talk about music? Or would typing more than "Hey" be another mask that John would pierce right through? Paul shoved another gulp of macaroni in his face before his fingers went to work.

_"Hi. You want to explain Trotskyism to me over dinner?"_

Maybe dinner was too much.

_"Hi. You want to explain Trotskyism to me over coffee?"_

Paul didn't like coffee.

_"Hi. You want to explain Trotskyism to me over tea?"_

Scratching his nose in concentration, Paul stared at the message, suddenly realizing he had left some cold cheese on his device. After some contemplation, Paul attempted to wipe it away, instead pressing the “send” button, confirming his tea date with John Lennon. That is, if he ever responded. 

And he didn't.

It was February 15th and Paul was in his dorm listening to an obscure genre some would call jazz and others post-punk, an oddity not even Paul understood. He was taking notes on institutional racism or whatever it was he was learning in "Race, Ethnicity, and the Modern World." He thought that he would be indoctrinated in college, and was actually looking forward to the prospect. But upon entering his first classes, the lowly freshman realized that most of his professors were moderates, and Paul had suddenly felt the wistful radical in him sigh with boredom. As radical Paul died the painful death of handwritten notes, his phone buzzed with a new message. It was the match site. Had John finally decided Paul was worth his time? 

Taking a moment to bite his quite perky yet confusingly droopy lips, Paul opened the message. It wasn't John. It was the rhythmless Linda Eastman.

_Hey!! I've seen you perform at The Underground, you're pretty good :D wanna grab a bite ;)?_

Paul didn't know a lot of people who reverted to emoticons when texting. There was always a juvenile but antiquated charm that accompanied a semicolon parenthesis. He smiled at Linda's message and waited the obligatory minute and a half before giving up on trying to look cool and distanced. No more masks, McCartney, just be yourself. 

_Sure, Friday night? 8pm, I know a good Sushi place. By the way, beware the Liverpudlian accent._

Paul quickly sent the message, on purpose this time. He then realized he had not told George about his matches and that his best friend deserved to hear the tale and impose his own Georgian framework. George, although projecting a persona of shy kindness onto those outside of his inner circle, could easily be a tiring git who liked to fill the void of conversations by shoving whatever trash he had found in his snack cabinet into his promiscuous mouth. Like Paul, George covered his threatening eyebrows with a shaggy mop top, and also like Paul, covered his insecurities by being unavoidably talented at guitar and songwriting. While Paul considered himself an old-school melodist (which he often argued to George was the basis of Western music, and therefore superior), George was an atmospheric writer, one who focused on the horizontal flow of several lines projected against a melody of implications, not a melody of isolation. Needles to say, this created some tension when the two writers had attempted to compose together. Although they were good friends, there was an obvious glue missing to their joint compositional pursuits. So it was funny when Paul would sometimes walk around campus to find posters reading:

TWO LIVERPUDLIANS LOOKING FOR BANDMATES. ONLY REQUIREMENT IS GOOD TASTE. TEXT: (Paul's hesitantly given number). BISEXUALS ENCOURAGED. 

The bisexual part was George's idea, despite George’s immovable heterosexuality. Paul, as a nuanced bisexual, approved the addition because he thought it was funny and kept intolerant pests away. Well, it was Hathford University, so about 30% of the population was some form of queer anyways. His bisexuality wasn’t something he had considered in deep thought. It was a label he had assumed by proxy of his indifference to the source of his affection. Whoever could give him a feeling of mutual warmth, reassurance, and acceptance, was worth loving with messy confidence. But it was odd, at least to Paul, that all of his college distractions so far had been women, despite his apparent evenly spread attraction across genders. Maybe it was easier to find straight girls to entertain for a night at Hathford than it was others. Or maybe it was easier for Paul. 

Before Paul began thinking of his miserable string of freshman one night stands so far, he checked that he had his dorm key in his pocket and strutted downstairs to George's convenient 1st floor room. 

_U alone?_

Paul made sure George’s roommate wasn’t in. There was only one time Paul had seen George’s roommate. Paul had come to play guitar with George, and his roommate was sleeping in his own corner. George said that the fella wouldn’t have woken up for a tsunami, and it was true. The kid wouldn’t wake up for even the loudest, crunchiest, power-chordiest guitar. 

_Ya, come on in bb ;)_

"George, open the door you bastard!" Paul slammed on his friend's door. A half naked boy stepped out of the bathroom and into the hall, pretending not to hear Paul's out of place tenor scream. The freshman dorms were notorious for their tight nit crime against privacy.

The halls were clean, but nothing was satisfying about gloomy Grey concrete shining against a dark green carpet. Paul did not expect luxury, but when first moving in, he was surprised how well the designers were able to capture the feeling of a minimum security prison. His thoughts were interrupted by the swing of Inmate George's door. 

"Hey! You good, mate? It's like 11 at night, y'know that's me wank hour." 

"Shut up ya ponce, I've got to tell you about this woman." 

George's face lit up and stepped to the side to let Paul in. His hard-to-miss Yes poster shined against the relatively clean room. Of course, a loose knicker or sock had found its way over a chair or under Paul's shoe. But these imperfections were perfectly George, perfectly messy but considerately kept as to not suffocate the visitor. And the things that truly mattered, his guitars, his writing, those treasures were splayed like a shining altar against an otherwise ordinary room. 

Paul dropped himself in George's desk chair as George threw himself on his tuition-subsidised bed. 

"So," George started, "You did the match thingy right?" He laid on top of his covers, staring at the ceiling as his arms rested crossed under his head. 

"Yeah, I got a bunch of freaks. Except for this one normal bird, although the normal bit was probably more freaky than anything else?"

"Mmm," George murmed and shifted on his side. 

"Well, I texted this one lad who was supposed to be my first match. He looked… y'know… Hot. Like a rocker. Didn't respond though, so I guess fuck him?" Paul raised an eyebrow at George who seemed to be staring at nothing. There was a strip of gum on the table, and Paul unwrapped it and plopped it into his mouth. 

George turned to Paul with a mischievous smile,"You know that gum expired in 1986?"

"Shut up, nerd!" he yelled, in between chews,"Are you even listening?" 

George rolled his eyes and gave a reassuring smile, "Yeah, go on, mate. Cross my heart." 

"Right so that commie rocker lad didn't respond. One day later, I get a message from another match, her name’s Linda. She says she wants to go out Friday." Paul finished with a slight boast. 

The boy on the bed shifted into an upright position, "She texted you first? How modern…" 

Paul rolled his eyes, "Well. I haven't exactly been on an actual date my whole time here. I don't know what the hell I'm doing."

"Right, maybe this will be a good change from your nymphomania."

The dorm guest chuckled and shook his head, "Hey, I'm no playboy, Geo. It's just been a couple people…a month."

For a man with a reputation for being quiet, George's face said a thousand words. His faux disappointment shined through. 

"Paul…" 

"No slut shaming George!" 

"Hey," George put his hands up, "You said the word 'slut,' not me! Plus I was just gonna ask you about this Linda person. She seems good?" 

Paul sighed and ran a hand through his mop, "I guess so. She likes my music, from what I can tell. She told me she goes to my shows sometimes."

"Oh, she's a lost cause, Paul." 

Paul glared. 

"Just kidding!" George quickly added,"I hope you two have a happy life or whatever…" He paused as if he were contemplating something, then began unwrapping a chocolate bar that had seemingly appeared out of thin air. 

"Where in the bloody hell did that come from?!" 

"Mind your business!" 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... a few things... I don't know if this is clear, but the pandemic is gonna be a thing at the end of this story. I know that's kind of weird for a fanfiction, but I just wanted to document what it felt like to be a college student in the middle of bullshit at the time, and I guess the way I wanted to do that was through a McLennon fanfic (??????). Anyways, I hope I'm not testing your patience. Thanks for the nice comments on the last one :D

Four days of crisp northeast air passed, the uncertain weather melting snow before once more, bringing droplets of sparkling ice. Holiday snow was welcome because it was fresh, exciting, a telling friend for a new year. February snow was an overstayed welcome, and the excitement for a changing world became itself its own banality.

It was also frustrating for someone like Paul, who on this Friday night had a date with a girl on the other side of campus. For one, winter clothes were not as flattering as its freer counterparts. There was no negotiation with an northeast American winter. He would have to make due with a giant puffed coat and an oversized teal sweater. Paul had no other choice but to make his first impression under seven layers of wool, old chunky boots, and hold his date’s hand under a thin layer of wool gloves. And of course he didn’t have a car, he barely had half a bag of stale crisps in his drawer. 

Thankfully, as Paul made his final steps to the north campus dorms, the snow started to settle in favor of a light empty breeze. Walking up to the dorm’s locked door, he tried swiping his key card and it displayed a negative red. Great, so he was stuck. 

_ Hey! I’m outside ur halls rn. R you ready :)? _

Paul wasn’t a fan of the whole “R” thing but his knuckles disagreed wholly with the frostbite forming in the exposed chill. Three minutes later, Linda appeared with a wool hat, scarf, and a more dignified coat than Paul’s overwhelming puff. 

“Uh, hey?” Paul said, happy to finally meet the avatar on his phone. “98% match, Linda, right?”

“Hmm,” She said, approaching Paul and hooking onto his bicep for warmth, “Only 98%? Unbelievable…”

Linda and Paul’s warm conversation provided a needed contrast to the assaulting breeze, slowly turning into a wet wind. She was open, almost wild, but paradoxically, her free spirit was reserved in the small moments when she would gaze at his eyes, accepting that, even if they were not meant to hold each other as lovers the rest of their lives, they would find comfort in each other through whatever means chance had given them. 

“I find the accent kind of hot, to be honest.” Linda smiled as they entered the Sushi restaurant. 

“Is that right? Just wait until my lips aren’t stuck from the cold.” Paul turned to the host and asked for a table. 

Once they sat, they both relieved themselves of their giant rags, and Linda turned again to Paul, leaning on her forearm and biting her lips. “So… your shows are really good, is that your own material?”

With a sheepish smile he nodded his head, “Yeah, all mine. Sometimes it’s hard to get inspiration, though, y’know?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” She said looking to the side, “I’m not much of a songwriter… or musician.”

A waiter butted in, asked them for their drinks, and they both settled on water. 

“I think everyone should write,” Paul said as Linda sipped on her ice water, “Everyone has stuff to say, y’know.” 

Linda angled her head, “Mmm, well I’m not exactly a writer, but,” she stirred her straw and forced the sound of ice in the air, “I’d like to think my photography speaks for itself.” 

“Is that what you want to do? Photography?”

“I don’t know, honestly. Sometimes I feel like I want to see the world or have a great adventure or some-I don’t know some stupid fantasy shit. And other times it feels like-like I want to settle on a farm somewhere, somewhere in the country,” she paused to laugh, “I guess that’s not possible on a photographer’s salary.” 

Paul smirked, “You don’t have to choose, Linda. You can do it all.” 

Before Linda could finish the thought prompting her blush tinted smile, the waiter came back with a pad and pen. “Need a few more minutes?”

“Shit!” Linda widened her eyes at the menu, “We didn’t even look!”

After a satisfying experience, stolen glances, ice spilled, ice cleaned, and loose chuckles, Paul and Linda paid for their meal and walked out of the restaurant with fingers locked. The moment 10 p.m. arrived, the wind died slightly and a cold fluff began to descend on the two. 

“Do you want to go to a party?” Linda blurted and expectedly stared up at Paul. It was a Friday night and he had nothing else to do. Why not? Linda’s brow furrowed under her playful bangs, “I mean, it’s the Literary House’s party so it’s not like anyone’s getting arrested or anything tonight.” 

There were different types of parties at Hathford University. Most days there would be a dorm room blasting trap music among the loud voices of a dozen or so insecure sardines. On weekends, there were frat or program house parties, the usual alcohol, marijuana, MDMA or willing bodies were passed around and sweaty adolescents pressed against each other in a murky hall. Sometimes one asshole called the police, and you’d end up leaving behind your favorite windbreaker while a crowd of flesh panicked out the back. The best parties weren’t parties at all. They were groups of close friends, running around campus, smoking on the green or wasting their short lives in another pocketed “adventure” in some secluded part of campus. Paul rubbed his reddening nose, figuring a humid smoky room would be a good change of pace.

“Alright, let’s do it.”

The young woman beamed and held tightly onto Paul. She led him down a series of streets, some of which were familiar, others dark and meaningless. At one point, Paul wasn’t sure if Linda actually knew where Literary House was, but he trusted her confident American stride. Something about Linda afforded those in her presence prerequisite assurance that, although you may not arrive at your destination, Linda will take you on the scenic route. 

Some twelve minutes later, Linda walked past a green door housing one of the many lively sounds on campus. She then retraced her steps, realizing that this particular set of rhythmic noises was indeed the Literary House hosting one of their weekly shindigs. 

She glanced up at Paul looking semi-apologetic, “Ok… This is the house, I’m almost sure of it.”

Linda dragged Paul up the steps to knock, and after some annoying delay, a young man with a towering pompadour and some facial scruff opened the door. 

“Yeah?”

Linda gave him a confused accusing glace, “The… party?”

The man sniffed his over encompassing nose then chuckled in a way only a man who had just smoked half a blunt would. “Ha, come in, lass.” The accent was familiar to Paul. 

As they stepped inside, Paul turned to the observing young man and simply asked, “Liverpool?”

“That’s right,” the other lad replied with wide eyes and a laugh. Linda pulled slightly forward and Paul met her, leaving the man without another word.

Entering the main lounge they were met with a thick layer of smoke and a pink hue that colored moving bodies across the house. Silhouettes conversed in corners, poured drinks, or moved in rhythm to a steady beat. As Paul and Linda removed their coats and layers, Paul familiarized himself with the divide between those that played beer pong and smiled endlessly versus those humbly chatting on the couch, melting into the atmosphere. Like most people, Paul chose different worlds on different nights, some days engulfed in a cloud of smoke in a serene dialogue, other times rustling with his mates among a collection of dancers. He wondered what kind of person Linda became on Friday nights. Did she spend her hours in kitchen gossip? Was she a master drinker who toppled over others? Was she glued to a wall, letting a stranger tuck hair behind her fingers?

Across the room, a familiar apparition manifested itself like a creature crawling from a murky mist. A tossle of auburn hair bobbed with its owner’s pleasant laugh, the owners’ caterpillar-like eyebrows creeping up in delight, lost in a mess of locks and sweat. The young man’s pale figure was complimented by a fitting collared shirt and form-fitting dark jeans, as if he had fallen out of a magazine for rockers turned beatniks. It was unmistakably John Lennon, his 100% match, his avoidant counterpart, his fellow musician, his confusing enigma. And somehow, as the orbs of John’s life, snuggled now under Buddy Holly-type glasses, suddenly met Paul’s gaze, Paul could still decipher the welcoming brown hue of their intentions across the foggy lake of adolescents. John did not part their gaze as he drank from his bottle. For a second, Paul had forgotten to breathe. 

“You want to get a drink?”

“Huh?”

Paul’s neck snapped back to Linda’s waiting face. He remembered the satisfying tightness of her turtleneck sweater. Suddenly words left her pale face, “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah-sorry, let’s get a drink,” and as Paul spoke his focus turned away from Linda’s sweater and shifted again to the young man with the bottle, who was again focused on his friends. For a moment, Paul thought John’s eyes had flicked slightly back in his direction, but Paul had already disappeared into the kitchen. 

They found several cool beers in a bowl of ice and grabbed a pair of free (illegal) drinks. For a few moments, they drank in silence and Paul avoided her gaze, suddenly at a loss for words. It seemed so easy to go to parties with his friends. It seemed so easy to pick a person from a crowd that you didn’t care to understand. The moment made him feel like he had started the year over again, forced to speak to a stranger yet eager to impress them for fear of never quite finding a place in the community. 

“I don’t… really like trap music,” Paul found himself saying with no regard for meaning or intention.

“Really? It’s all they play here, it must be a nightmare for you,” Linda replied, tucking a loose strand behind her ear.

“Well I don’t mean that. I don’t dislike all of it. I just don’t-er, I don’t like generic trap music. If it’s good, if it’s experimental, if it says something, I guess that’s--yeah, that’s good. But, well, they don’t play that sort of thing at house parties.” Paul lost his thought, hoping some of what he said made sense. 

“Yeah!” Linda surprisingly agreed, “I would love, like, a free form jazz party or something. That would be funny as fuck.” 

“Well, while we’re here,” he said, submitting himself, “wanna dance?”

Linda finished off the rest of her drink, throwing it to the side and hooking onto Paul’s fingers as she dragged him to the dance floor. A steady beat seduced them into movement, and they soon became lost in the predictable rhythm and musk of the air. Almost an hour passed blended in a pile of bodies, as their own forms became free and curious with each intoxicating drink. Paul’s arms wrapped around the low edges of Linda’s waist, and he felt comforted by the sensual extension of trust. As their previously electric demeanors became low and unguarded, they began to sway rather than dance, waiting for the other to say something.

“Do you want to take a break,” Paul tried to reach Linda’s ear, brushing the edges of her reddening face, “gettin’ a bit knackered.” 

“I don’t know what that is, but yes, let’s.” Linda nodded.

It was almost one hour past midnight. By this time, the couches were empty, save one blurry sleeping body that neither Linda or Paul regarded. They collapsed together, each intentionally aware of their grazing legs. 

“This… It’s been great,” Linda turned her face and met Paul’s lidded eyes. 

“I agree,” he said, intrigued by an awareness of Linda’s approaching breath. She turned her lazy body closer, and Paul leant to meet her silk lips. His eyes enclosed him in darkness as he focused on the rhythm of their kiss and the feeling of her tight cheekbones against his palm. He then felt a switch in his head, a mechanical flick that lit Paul’s rehearsed routine of intimacy. Find a girl, have her over, find her gone or calmly redressing the next day. But his hunger for Linda, despite knowing her, despite _ liking _ her, could only reach a level of simmering warmth he had felt with these other missed connections. 

Before Paul initiated their breakaway, Linda pulled away to yawn. 

“Oh my goooood,” She spat with a long drawn breath, “I’m so tired!” She blinked rapidly. Paul rested a hand on her shoulder. Where their physical connection faded, a genuine care pushed Paul to concern.

“I can walk you to your dorm?” Paul asked. Linda nodded, smiling and clunkily rising from the furniture. The two took disjointed steps to their coats and once again faced the ice outside. Their trek across campus felt less adventurous and anticipating, instead falling into an otherwise quiet night aside from clumsy giggles. Once they reached Linda’s residence hall, she stopped and turned for a moment, not quite looking Paul in the eye.

“Um, this was really fun.”

“Mhm,” Paul nodded, shivering slightly from the cold, “We should do this again.” It was the natural thing to ask. Instead of confirming outright, Linda bit her lip and returned Paul’s stare.

“I-I like you Paul. But,” she started.

“But?”

“I’ve just gotten out of a relationship and, well… I don’t know if I can do this again. Not the _ real _ thing, anyways. And I don’t want to drag you into some fake bullshit. I’m sorry.”

Paul sighed and looked off for a moment before meeting Linda again with an accepting smile. 

“That’s alright, I get it, y’know. But,”

“But?” Linda joked

“But I really like you. I’d still want to be mates.” Linda’s eyes brightened and she raised an eyebrow that fled to her bangs.

“Hmm, ‘mates,’ huh?” she looked away sheepishly, “Ok, mates, then.” In a quick moment, she flew up on her toes and kissed Paul on the cheek. The next second, she had waved and disappeared into her residence hall. He had truly enjoyed Linda’s presence, but felt slightly relieved that the pressure of romance had allowed them to now be themselves. Walking away with questions and lost in thought, Paul assumed that it must be his youth that relegated romantic love to a series of performances and on demand emotions. Perhaps it was for the best, then. 

It was 1:30 a.m. and the paths around campus had become dark and ominous. It was still difficult for Paul to find the peace that some men found in pre-sunrise walks. Or was it the unnerving peace of the situation that was the appeal? While enjoying the lonely chirp of crickets, he heard an animalistic growl coming from his abdomen. There was only one reliable place open this late to fulfill Paul’s hunger. The Hathford Diner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise they will meet soon!!!!!!!!!!! I remembered the other thing I was gonna say. So since John and Paul weren't born in the 40s, they're gonna be a little different than the John and Paul we all know. Fundamentally, they are John and Paul and I've tried to write it that way, but maybe... John isn't as cold to emotionally expression, despite still being pretty locked and insecure. He can be a little more of the poet he wanted to be in the 50s, but of course, he's still John.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the comments so far, hope you like :D

The Hartford Diner was the most comforting of the dining halls. Beloved by nearly every student, late into the night, a herd of post-party feeders would flock to enjoy its fine selection of perfectly greased foods and fulfilling snacks. The Spicy Chicken Sandwich was its flagship, a reliable friend on a remote grill on campus. Friday nights at the Diner made you feel disgustingly alive as you waited in a half hour line of your drunk peers, praying to God you found a familiar face somewhere closer to the front. 

Paul entered the Diner and his body awoke to the smell of luxurious warmth fanning the flames of his hunger. A black and white checkered floor expanded under a line of adolescents, all anticipating the moment they would reach the smoky grill. He strided quickly for a spot in line, unable to discern any recognizable faces in the front. In defeat, he pulled out his phone and began to aimlessly surf apps, Twitter, Instagram, and in a moment of desperation, Facebook. 

After exhausting all of his social media options, he began to unconsciously observe the Diner’s patrons. There was a group of laughing girls in the front, their red and undone faces melting with the joy of drunkenness. A parasitic judgment crossed Paul's first instinct, but he attempted, in lazy anger, to fight this toxicity away. After all, he was a lone lad pissed out of his mind waiting in line for a chicken sandwich. 

There were moments where Paul felt a semi-justified superiority to his peers. Sometimes people were too loud, too confident, too loose with their words or dedication to foreign senses of fashion. But after highschool, Paul realized he was just the same, and even if he wasn’t, he was starting to accept that his standards were only one of many in a sea of passing looks. Yet, somehow these thoughts still haunted him in unnecessary moments. He couldn’t help but overhear one of the girls with blue hair stumble over her words.

“I don’t know guys, I… want him to like me. But I, maybe I just want  _ someone  _ to like me,” she spoke softly. Her black chelsea boots stomped with an uneven rhythm as we swayed over the floor. 

“ _ We _ love you, Layla! Fuck this guy. This is gonna be the best fucking Spicy of your life.” The other girls nodded and expressed their affection through a firm group hug, their connected bodies appearing like a creature of adolescent nightmares. They almost toppled over but seemed to find their balance just as the cashier asked for their order.

A snort directly in front of Paul forced his gaze away from the girls, which was probably for the best as he approached a murky territory as far as prolonged stares go. The snort of derision came from the young man in front of him, sporting a familiar mess of hazel hair and unkempt sideburns. Paul felt a sudden unease now realizing the identity of the handsome wannabe beatnik-rocker in front of him. The sporadically tucked collared shirt and dark wrinkled jeans mocked him from the back, but, then, to Paul’s horror, the boy turned to his profile. Engulfed in a phone, the young man’s nose draped against its blue light, his face smiling at whatever amusement the device displayed. The intoxicated Paul McCartney felt a stinging annoyance in his stomach. So John Lennon  _ did _ check his phone, huh?

Somewhere in Paul’s clumsy mind, he believed that holding an extended burning glare would not draw attention. Obviously, John noticed what he, at first, thought was a very large middle schooler staring him down with pursed lips. And as John turned with a raised eyebrow, Paul quickly felt tiny in his baggy wool sweater. 

“Do I know you?” John asked, Paul surprised by the nasal of John’s unmistakably Liverpudlian baritone. Paul blushed slightly, feeling entrapped in a thought cycle of deadly scenarios, and acutely alarmed by the beautiful aching pain in his chest. It reminded him of those old renaissance paintings with naked Greeks, as if he could feel the grace by which the artists revered the grasping humanity of antiquity. Or maybe he was a little drunk.

“Are you from Liverpool?” Paul sealed his lips immediately after. 

“What the fuck?” John laughed loosely, “How many of you gits go to this school?”

“Right?” Paul joined John’s sensible chuckle, “There was another scouse at this party I was at earlier.” He was uncertain about their sudden familiarity. Paul needed control. John’s laugh had made his knees buckle, now conscious of the sudden nakedness felt under the other man’s intimidating stare. Even if John was about two or three centimeters shorter, the man surpassed him in an unspoken spirit, ready to break. John, in his tight collection of strong features, seemed prepared to fight the nearest threat to his sphere. Intrigue followed an aching pang in Paul’s stomach.

“Yeah,” John nodded, “That’s Ringo, he’s… well he’s alright when he’s sober.” The cadence with which he spoke felt mystically candid, as if he thought himself bound to truth. 

Paul smirked and with a careless ease continued, “I don’t think anyone was sober, John.” 

Shit. Was he supposed to know his name?

John squinted slightly, then reached for his front pocket. He retrieved the thick framed glasses he wore at the party and adjusted his sight.

“Wait,” he said with parted lips, his face calming, “You’re uh, you’re that freshman, right? From the Match?”

A tension framed Paul’s locked lips. Chalk it up to drunkenness or pettiness, a mental shield with iron spikes clashed between them. A new stoic demeanor held Paul’s expression, and it seemed enough to combat the remnants of burning curiosity in his stomach. Paul’s lips settled on a thin smirk before he spoke. “And you must be the bloke who ignores messages, hm?”

“The fuck?” John’s breath left his body, “I’ve been busy, mate, I’m sorry I didn’t get to ya, ok?”

A part of John sounded ready to defend the trail of his carelessness, but another aftertone of sincere regret painted the edges of his defense. 

Furrowing his brow, Paul crossed his arms and replied coldly, “Whatever, s’fine.” 

“Hey, well if you’re gonna be a ponce about it.” John threw up his arms and turned to face the front again. The increasingly sober McCartney lowered his arms and now felt awkwardly out of place. He couldn’t ignore the energy radiating from John, even if all Paul could see was his wide shoulders towering like a barrier between them. A moment of curiosity prompted Paul to wonder why John’s piercing glance stripped him and prodded him in a way that felt totally new. But like his intoxication, its grasp slowly fell in fading spikes. 

Every step forward in line, a pull urged him towards John’s gravitational center. But reason pleaded with him to stand back and only watch as John ordered his food off the grill and left with a takeout box on his side. For a moment, Paul imagined John pausing before he opened the door to exit, and Paul almost imagined himself trailing behind John, if only John waited another second for Paul to collect himself. Instead, Paul grabbed his box, turned to the exit, and found only his fellow drunk isolates. 

Once Paul finished facing the winds of an empty late-night campus, he crashed into his room and rolled onto his bed. His legs hung over the edge as he kicked off his shoes and opened his box from the diner. Alone, post-drunk, and probably marginally high from the fumes of the party, he tried to devour his 2 a.m. snack. After one bite, he opened his phone and opened Instagram. 

_ Search: John Lennon _

John Lennon - California, John Lennon - Austria, John Lennon - Scotland? Scotland? No, not him, John Lennon - Liverpool. Yes. There he was. He opened the profile. It wasn’t private, thank God, but there weren’t many updates. The last photo was from December. He posed in front of a quaint suburban house with an older woman, Paul guessed his mother. His mother wasn’t exactly smiling, but the arm around John’s shoulder expressed her contentment. Her pale face and light lipstick against her cold demeanor displayed a distanced well intention, almost like Paul’s own father. 

Another picture from this time last year caught Paul’s attention. The background was dark, but one could make out a crowd of teenagers and a few thrown around drinks. John looked sweaty, happy, his arm locked around a young blonde woman whose eyes squinted with laughter. 

Some pictures were non linear, messy, blurry, while others felt slightly artistic. There was a photo of an empty notebook on a desk with no caption. The room was dimly lit and the edges were painted with crumpled paper. Traces of a sloppily torn page still hung in the binding. John’s artistry was chaotic and manically inspired. No trace of John’s actual work existed, only the remnants of lost attempts and redefinitions. 

Paul closed the phone and stared at his half bitten sandwich. He wasn’t sure if he even  _ liked  _ John. Uncertain about the feeling that boiled behind his cheeks, Paul  _ was _ certain John would reappear in some periphery along with his haunting gaze.

~*~

Sunday evenings at the Hathford Underground were decently populated, from those looking to fill time before their  _ real _ destination or those who simply wanted to enjoy a cookie and entertainment. The establishment was a student run cooperative, known for their pastries, roasted coffee, and generally carefree environment. Tonight, Paul was the second act, a much preferred spot from his initial 11pm slot. He worked his way up the time-slot competition by being a consistent performer, showing up on time, and generally having high quality songs to perform. Reputation was slow to come, but he would notice some students take note of his name on the chalkboard labelled “TONIGHT’S SHOW:'' and smile at their friends with amused excitement. It felt good to be able to move an audience, to be known for something given from your own hands. Another reason Paul liked to believe he was note-worthy was his consistent artistic voice. He always had something to say, whether about himself or the uncertainties of the world around him. A part of Paul knew that he was just another voice among others, but a small inkling inside insisted that his work was exceptional in some way. 

At 8 p.m. the first act was called to the stage, a small young woman in an assaulting outfit of denim. A pink strand ran through her thick black hair and her guitar was decorated in different types of stickers.

“So, my name's May and... I know what you’re thinking,” she said as she scanned her eyes across the audience. The crowd was silent, save for a friendly chuckle from what Paul thought was May’s friend. “Oh my god,” she continued, “Denim on denim?”

The audience settled into comfortable laughter and a banal anticipation filled the dark room. A few whispers continued on.

“But anyways… here’s the song,” she remarked and began with their generic indie folk classic. Indeed, the denim-on-denim was one of those common anachronisms, an intentional statement that slowly began losing its grit. At least, it felt that way for a post-millennium world, where life seemed to rise and fade in the same breath. 

The first act was decent, nothing you couldn’t find on a struggling but promising Soundcloud. Surely, Paul thought, with the right work, May could have some hits. Again, a toxic judgement creeped like wet steam and evaporated as Paul tried to wave it away.

“And next,” said the presenter. He was a familiar face at the Underground. If you were tall, you could see his amicable curly hair towering over heads in a crowd. “Returning again, the beautiful, the lovely, the vibrant… Paul McCartney.” 

Paul chuckled and carried his acoustic guitar onto the stage. He always told people he was a natural performer, that before a show he never let his nerves get to him. In some ways, Paul  _ didn’t _ feel nervous before getting on stage. But it wasn’t exactly a calming experience to be so close to vulnerability.

Buzz from the amplifier halted as he plugged in his shining instrument, testing the strings with a quick display of his fingerpicking skill. 

“Uh, hello,” he said, the spotlight giving him no ability to discern the audience. “My name’s Paul, er, I’ll be doing just two songs for you tonight. This first one is a song I wrote, and well, I thought it was for a girl, but… it sort of just became its own thing.” Then, all that rang was a single chord.

_ To lead a better life, _

_ I need my love to be here… _

The audience drank in the soft serenade of Paul’s tenor and the mellow lows of his fingers. It was harder than usual to see the audience tonight. The spotlight hit him so directly he began to sweat. Through it, he continued his psychedelic love song and played the absolute silence of the audience. He used the guitar like its own orchestra, with a consistent bass that plopped through the air, shining thin strings and a caress of its whimpering middle. 

_...I will be there _

_ And everywhere _

_ Here, there and everywhere _

His final strum rang like a satisfied sigh and the audience offered enthusiastic applause. “Alright,” Paul smiled, wiping some sweat from his brow, “Hey, uh, is it possible to dim the light? Or else someone’s gonna have to mop the sweat.” The audience was already chatting slightly amongst itself, but those still attentive chuckled. 

As the lights dimmed, Paul could finally scan the audience. There was a group of girls with half bitten cookies, all on their phones. Another table seated two guys enjoying their respective teas. One ambitious person was typing away on a laptop at a lone table. A regular Sunday night. Paul shuffled over to the keyboard that was set up on the side of the stage and stumbled slightly trying to move the microphone. While repositioning the stand, he glanced up for a moment and froze.

At a table near the back sat an all encompassing figure, fitted with a noticeable aquiline nose, turned up collar, scruffy eyebrows, sideburns and gently pursed lips that twitched upwards. A sharp chill ran up Paul’s spine, reaching his head and clouding his thoughts with questions. 

Somehow, it was John Lennon. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ?

With his heart racing, he carelessly left the microphone where it was and positioned his uneasy hands on the keys. 

“Well,” Paul said, embarrassed at the slight crack of his voice. “I um, this is one for-for, well it’s a song.” 

_ The long and winding road _

_ That leads to your door. _

_ Will never disappear, _

_ I’ve seen that road before. _

The silencing audience calmed him and he closed his eyes, trying to focus on his single voice in the air. He was hoping to show off his newly refined keyboard skills tonight, but his hands were locked and stiff, knowingly grazing over keys in a rush. Deep in the bellow of his soul-style voice was a lurking quiver, usually controlled and upright, now being observed and prodded by the young man in the back of the Underground. Paul opened his eyes for one moment to find the attentive John Lennon with a hand feeling his jaw. His eyes, though dim, attacked him from the other side of the room with a predatory intent. 

Paul’s final vocal riff sailed over the audience and they gave him a very satisfying applause in return. Without a word he offered a respectful bow, and slung his guitar over his shoulder. He surprised himself with an uncharacteristically brisk walk towards the exit. All he had to do was reach the door at the end, climb some stairs up to the main green and it would all be-

“Hey,” a voice spoke with surprising gentleness. Paul blushed slightly and paused with his back to the speaker. One sigh later, he spun on his heel and met the face of a stunning stoic rocker. He was wearing an old style brown suede jacket over a black t-shirt. His legs were wrapped nicely by cream trousers, and his hair tousled up into a pseudo-curly poof. And then, Paul realized he was staring at John voicelessly, like a freak scanning an object and measuring its dimensions. 

“Uh, Hi,” Paul tried. He scratched the back of his neck, “Thanks for comin' to the show.” 

John snorted and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, “I just came to piss after seein’ some mates on Main Street,” he turned his face to Paul, ”I guess you caught my attention.” John had the tendency to look to the side as he began to speak, but by the time he finished his thought, he wrapped the listener in a thin, teasing stare.

“Hm,” Paul shifted to the side, “don’t suppose it was my devilish looks?”

“Ha, you wish!” John retorted playfully, his eyes dark and masked, “Anyways,” he smacked his lips in preparation, “Interesting songs, lad.”

“Really?” Paul replied with hoarse breath, as if he had just finished clearing his throat.

John looked to the floor for a moment, collecting his thoughts, “I mean, yeah, they’re… good.” He stopped, then started again, as if the floating compliment placed him somewhere uncertain, “They could use some edge to them, though. They were almost _ too _ perfect.” 

Paul clung to his guitar guitar strap for a sense of stability, “Thanks… and, sorry I was a bit of a tit Friday. I get bitchy when I’m drunk.”

A wordless John opened his mouth with a winning smile, then shook his head, “No worries, son. Nothin’ I can’t handle.”

“You’re a writer, too, right?” 

“Ha,” John snorted, “Yeah, well, it’s mostly junk.” 

“Don’t say that.” Paul stopped. He wanted to leave. Fight or flight? Flight. Leave. Go. Paul felt like an explorer in murky water. 

“Hm?” 

“Well, it’s-I haven’t even heard your stuff, but you seem like an interesting… creative fellow. I doubt it’s junk,” Paul furrowed his brow, “Anyways, why would you put ‘musician’ on your profile if you think it’s junk?”

The other man bit his lip, and suddenly Paul felt like the taller person.

“Don’t know, just wanted to find someone to share me junk with, I guess.” 

And for a moment, Paul considered John’s proclivity for missing messages and ignored matches. He conjured the image of a struggling John Lennon, attempting to open himself to a stranger online in a totally new way, then dreading the impending collapse of his perfectly fortified wall. He considered the same John he saw in front of him, biting his lip and looking away with the same shame as when he threw his phone to the side and left Paul’s message unanswered. And now, the frightened Paul began to buzz on a different wavelength than simplistic fear, but in anticipation of his own walls being climbed and destroyed from within. 

Paul shoved his hands in his pockets and whipped his face from the floor to meet John’s empty visage. “Well,” Paul started, “You play guitar right?”

“That’s right.” John watched Paul fiddle with his strap.

“Why don’t you show me your stuff, ‘en? I know a good place.” Paul said with mock confidence.

For a moment, John contemplated in silence. “It’s not your bed, is it?” 

A rose tinted chuckle escaped Paul, “Heh, uh-,” he smiled playfully, “No.”

With a quick nod, John extended his arm to encourage Paul to lead the way. “Well,” John started, “Seems like a good night to get murdered. Let’s go.” 

They escaped onto the main green, Pau noticing how exposed he felt on the clear, but chilled February night. Thinking that he would be going straight to his dorm tonight, he had only prepared with a t-shirt under a blue-striped long sleeve. At least the walking would warm them up.

A comfortable silence entrapped them as John followed Paul’s gentle pace. Instead of filling time with words, they noticed a rare clump of stars stalking them from above. It was an odd situation. He didn’t really know John, but felt like he had to.

Crossing a few of Hathford’s back streets and paths, they made their way to the back of the unmistakable Computer Science and Technology building. However, they were not at the large glass main entrance, instead, in front of a scarred and scratched grey door. 

“I didn’t know they had a meth lab behind the CST,” John chuckled with a slight shiver from the cold. Paul shook his head and slid his keycard in the crack of the door, magically opening the seemingly locked entrance. He turned to John for a reaction, pleased with the way the other boy’s white face was painted with a malicious smile. “Ah, a schemer?” John teased.

Total darkness encompassed them as the door swung closed behind them with a loud click. 

“Watch your step,” Paul said, pulling out his phone lantern and pointing it to the five flights of stairs that towered over them. 

An impressed whistle filled Paul’s unoccupied senses, “Shit,” John said, “didn’t know I was workin’ out tonight.”

The two began their trek up the uncertain looping stairwell. Their hitched breath slowly accompanied the quiet click of their heels. When Paul looked back, shining his light on Lennon's scarlett sprinkled face, he noticed John’s questioning grin. John had taken off his jacket and rolled his sleeves, his forearms exposed with teasing veins. Curls of hair had straightened into distraught waves on John’s tilted head. The light flashed suddenly. It was John bursting past Paul in a competitive spring, leaving behind the confused pouting boy. 

“C’mon then,” John teased from the top of the next flight. Paul put a pair of defensive hands on his hips.

“You’re not the one luggin’ around an acoustic.” Paul replied. Although with a fraction of John’s energy, Paul bounced up the steps. The lantern’s light danced around the room with Paul’s steady jog, and soon it shone on John’s still body, a few steps from Paul. John didn’t move from his highground, watching expectantly as Paul paused from the step below. They became suddenly aware of their proximity, and from the single step below John, Paul felt like a small child again. 

John’s earthy eyes looked bright and glossy against the uneven light of Paul’s phone, his face older and angled in the sharp atmosphere. A moment passed where John briefly flashed his glance directly into Paul’s own dimly lit eyes, and then, Paul realized, in the wake of John’s absent stare, that John had extended his hand. 

“Need a lift, son?” John smiled. While, no, Paul didn’t need a ‘lift’, a part of him pleaded to connect to John’s warmth. His free hand inched onto John’s. Calloused fingers wrapped over Paul’s, and despite their wear, Paul found beauty in their long, wise elegance. 

Before another motion was made, the lantern flicked off, leaving the two in darkness.

“Shit!” Paul released his hand from John’s and looked at his black phone, “I think it’s out of battery.”

“Not to worry,” said a voice above Paul, “Monseuir John is here to save the-Oh.” 

“No,” Paul grumbled.

“Yeah, it’s gone,” John sighed with defeat. Once more, John’s long fingers cradled Paul’s dangling hand. “Let’s go, lad, I’ll lead the way.” 

John didn’t see Paul roll his eyes in the darkness, but Paul followed suit anyways, trailing slowly by his side in calm comfort. A few breathless flights later, they hit level ground and Paul reached for a few steps until he felt a flat cold surface. Once again, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his keycard. The card slid strategically in the exit's crack and with the right angle, the door clicked open. Behind the door, Paul pushed to reveal a flock of glowing stars and an empty roof. A few vents protruded from the dark concrete of the rooftop, perfect for sitting on a clear February night. 

“What a place, McCharmly.” John stopped at the doorway and watched Paul sit on one of the rectangular forms. “Is this where you take the ladies?”

Paul snorted and laid his guitar on his lap, “Nah, this is where I smoke,” he chuckled.

John shuffled across the roof and sat on the vent across Paul. The older boy huffed, “The kind that kill you or the kind that make you giddy?” 

“What is this, 1957? ‘Course it’s the giddy kind, git,” Paul retorted. John’s features appeared softer in the moonlight, the light on his eyes blending with the blue shade of the night. Before his stare became prolonged, Paul remembered why they climbed all those steps. He grabbed his guitar and held it in the air for John to take. After neglecting to take action, John shook his thoughtful gaze away and took the instrument with a smile

“Alright, prepare to be dazzled,” John said sarcastically. But something underneath his voice sparkled with confidence.

A single strum emptied their comfortable silence, and John took a last glance at Paul before tapping his foot and giving into the song.

_ Words are flowing out _

_ Like endless rain into a paper cup _

_ They slither while they pass _

_ They slip away across the universe… _

As a musician, Paul had heard several original songs performed before. Among them, different aspects shone: their technical perfection, their clarity, the smoothness of their transitions, and if it was a bad day, he would compliment a peer even in the absence of these aspects. But John, with his honest and open roughness, sang to him with a raw ear for neat imperfections. While technically, his fingers wobbled and his guitar buzzed, John carved away at an emotional purity in his songwriting, as if Paul could feel himself slip into the fall of his odd cadences and unparalleled progressions. It reminded him of George, and his friend’s unique and blissful chord choices. But John, unlike the many talented songwriters he had the pleasure of nitpicking, had felt like a long awaited missing piece of a puzzle. 

_...Jai Guru Deva _

_ Jai Guru Deva _

_ Jai Guru Deva _

Paul watched John with visible awe as he finished his mystical illustration. The cracking nasal of John’s voice hummed its last tune and the guitar faded out of the air. 

“That’s…” Paul started, but couldn’t quite place it.

“Shit?”

“Brilliant.” 

The older boy swallowed and offered Paul an uncertain expression. John’s lips parted slightly and his face grew tough as mental layers of brick protected John in his solitude. He took off the guitar with a stiff fiddle and handed the instrument back to Paul. 

“Your turn, son,” John said, instrument in air and eyes expectant. Paul grabbed the neck and armed himself again with his haunting weapon. For a moment, he thought he should say something, shower John with compliments and encourage him on his writing path. Instead, a mysterious air clung to John and Paul’s shared gaze, two near strangers trapped in a vortex of cautious sincerity. 

Now trapped by his instrument, Paul rested his palm on the steel strings, considering his next move. He decided to play it safe, one of his “classic” charmers.

_ Your day breaks, your mind aches _

_ You find that all the words of kindness linger on _

_ When she no longer needs you... _

He kept his audience out of sight, focusing on his technical strumming and picking, thinking of the somber descent he loved in this song. It was different from John’s in several respects. It was angular, melodically rich, and strided with a clear direction. For these reasons, Paul knew everyone had enjoyed its catchy embrace, and yet, as he looked up at John, he was intrigued by his thoughtful half-smile. 

_...And in her eyes you see nothing _

_ No sign of love behind the tears _

_ Cried for no one _

_ A love that should have lasted years. _

His thumb played it’s final falling bass and his fingers let go of the melancholy melody as it had many times before. He remembered the many girls that clapped to the fading of his strums. Brunettes, blondes, blue and green eyes, all saying praises before clasping his shoulder. He remembered the way they all smiled before they used each other’s bodies with mutual ambivalence. And he never remembered smiling himself. 

“Hm,” John interrupted Paul’s thoughts with a slight sound, “interesting.”

“Interesting?” Paul asked, confused. He had heard many responses before, from girls, fellow songwriters, friends. But, interesting?

Moonlight evened John’s face as he glanced quickly at the sky, then met Paul’s confused grimace. 

“It’s a little,” John rubbed his jaw, “It sounds old, like one of those old songs my aunt used to play.” He noticed Paul’s raised brow and quickly interjected, “Not in a bad way, I think. I mean… It took me to a special place.” 

It was John’s own version of a complement in the fullest sincerity he could offer. It was an assurance of Paul’s ability, buried under layers of scruffy encouragement. While simple pleasantries were like junk-food to a songwriter, a subtle acknowledgement of one’s voice and the place of another’s art in one’s life, was the christening of a writer’s personal offer. 

“Well, if you ever want to play together,” Paul started and watched John react with nothing, “y’know, just uh…”

A mop of curly hair danced on John’s head shook his head with laughter and reached into his jacket, pulling out a clump of paper and a pen. 

“Let’s do this the old fashioned way, then,” John said, handing Paul the instruments.

“You carry around a pen?!” Paul said with joking shock. John shoved his hands in his pockets and smirked.

“Nah, I find them on the ground. That shit is like gold.” Paul finished scribbling onto the wrinkled notesheet, using his guitar as a flat surface for the annoyingly unsmooth pen. He handed back the sheet, his chest tightening at the small brush of John’s hands against his. The paper crumpled into John’s pocket, but John maintained his loosening stare on Paul’s colored face. 

Paul was completely naked, confused by the pang clawing in his stomach, urging him to reach forward and find the center of their ambiguous collision. 

“Well!” Paul shook his thoughts away, glancing at his watch, “It’s… 11:45?!” A sarcastic whistle followed from John.

“Perfect time to stargaze,” John stood up and plopped down next to Paul, “Did you see the moon? It’s all weird and yellow.” 

Glancing up, he noticed the moon again, and it was indeed, all weird and yellow. It was ugly in an interesting and novel way. Taking in the full scope of stars, he felt a small movement in the corner of his sight. John had been watching him with unapologetic intensity. The stare trapped Paul into a fixed gaze on the sky until he sensed John shift back to the moon. Now, Paul glanced at John with the partial turn of his face, trying to sneak a picture of John’s profile. His lashes were surprisingly long and curly, contrasting against the thin pout of his glistening lips. 

Before John noticed, Paul circled back to the moon and stars. His heart pounded against his ribcage and temples, his body surprisingly warm and tight in the killing cold. John’s leg rested slightly against Paul’s thigh, causing a blossoming spark to run through Paul’s spine. It could have easily been dismissed as an accident of proximity, but for Paul, it caused a nameless chaos in his stomach. He jolted up and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Uh,” Paul pouted, “I’ve got a 9 a.m. tomorrow, so.”

The blue tinted John offered a skeptical look, “Hm, if you say so, McCharmly. You want to ‘ead back then?”

The younger boy nodded and tried to assure John with a friendly, but crooked, smile. Again, they flew down the unlit stairs, although this time, their hands were not locked together. They reached the outside in silence.

“So you live in…?” John asked with a sliver of hope. 

"South Campus, so I’m that way,” Paul pointed South. 

“Right, you’re a Freshman,” John sighed and looked away with an uncharacteristic disappointment, “I’m on North campus, so, unless you need an escort... I’m gone.” John saluted and started to turn away with fists in his jacket pocket.

“Wait,” Paul clapped John’s shoulder. The other man turned, a curl falling on his flushed skin. Noticing his ambitious palm, Paul slid his hand away. “I, uh, It’s been fun. We should play again, I mean it.” 

“Right,” John said with a masked expression, “I’ll text you. For real this time.” 

The two shared a similar knowing smile and John turned away once more, leaving behind a conflicted, shivering Paul. John didn’t look back to notice Paul watch him shuffle away, and as John finally became a spot on the dark horizon, Paul turned back as well. Whatever it was they shared, it was clouded with uncertainty, and yet, this uncertainty only breeded a feeling of cosmic desire. 


End file.
